


got some demons on me, they've been feeding on me

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Crying, Drinking to Cope, Episode: s01e22 The Honeymoon, Heavy Angst, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pre-Relationship, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, if you like her you wont like this!!, stacy is a rapist in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: After finishing his job with Mark, House gets drunk and calls Wilson, for reasons very much related to Stacy.





	got some demons on me, they've been feeding on me

**Author's Note:**

> i rewatched _the honeymoon_ with my friend collette, noticed just how Trauma all of house's shit was, and wrote a fic about it in the span of like, thirty minutes.
> 
> fills the free space in my trope bingo card (which i used for 'in vino veritas/drunk fic'), and the 'episode related/missing scenes' space in the gen prompt bingo card i'm sharing with my boyfriend.
> 
> enjoy!

He downs more whiskey and then throws his cane to the other side of the room. He doesn’t need it— he’ll impress her if he disregards his pain, right? That’s how it works, right? He takes a step, and lets out a quiet exclamation when he doesn’t immediately crumble. Then another, and searing pain comes through.

He curses and clutches onto his leg as he tries to find a seat, his nails digging into his own palms. It hurts and he hates that it will never get away, how her husband will get better and will be able to move in maybe half a year, while he’s stuck here. He’s stuck with his cane and his pain and his disgust with himself.

He collapses into the piano seat and takes deep breaths— one in, one out, as he tries to make some sense of his thoughts. He can hear his own brain’s panic on  _ she kissed me on the cheek _ , and his own brain’s desire on  _ she said she’s not over me _ . He hates confusion, hates not having concrete answers, and he hates the way Stacy’s fingers ghosted over his belt years ago.

He’s drunk— of course he is, how else is he gonna deal with all his thoughts? Sure, he could down one too many pills, get some highly illegal drugs, but at least this one coping mechanism isn’t frowned upon by pretty much everyone. So he drinks until his brain keeps buzzing but not so unpleasantly.

He takes his phone in his trembling hands and looks through his contacts, before deciding to call Wilson. He knows what will happen, he knows exactly what words will be said. She didn’t do that, House, stop trying to seem like the victim and move on. He knows what’s going to happen, and yet he hits call and puts it to his ear.

“House?”

Concern. He almost laughs, but it’d lack any amusement.

“Wilson,” he croaks out. “You heard about uh— about Cuddy hiring— hiring Stacy?”   
  
“Are you drunk?”   
  
“Of course I’m drunk!” he says, managing to sit on the couch, laying down so he can fall asleep faster in a bit. “How else am I gonna deal with this?”   
  
“You agreed for her to hire her.”   


“Because I’m self-destruc— hic— tive.” He rubs his eyes and hiccups some more, resisting the urge to bawl his eyes out. He hasn’t cried in years, he’s not about to start now. “Because I know I’ll feel like shit if I see her everyday!”

“Why would you feel like shit?” A pause. “Oh-ho, because all you’ll think about is that she’s married and that she hates you, isn’t that right?”   
  
“She still loves me!” he yells.

“She—”   
  
“She told me, told me after we got Mark better, told me I’m the one and that she felt lonely around me and that there’s room with him and then she kissed my cheek and—” A sob builds up in his throat, and he lets it out, his resolve of not crying cracking.

“House.” He can hear a chair moving. “Are you crying?”   
  
“O-of course I’m crying, I’m going to have to see her every day,” he tries to say like he’s being his snarky self, but it’s interrupted with sobs every few words.   


“She still loves you,” he echoes. “But she’s staying with Mark. And that’s making you miserable.”   
  
“No!” he croaks out, crying louder.

Wilson takes a deep breath from the other side of the line, he can hear him pace around his house. He wonders how he hasn’t woken up his wife yet, how he hasn’t bumped into something. “Then what’s making you miserable?”   
  
“That I-I’m going to have to see my rapist every day for the foreseeable future,” he sobs out.

Silence from the other end of the line. Then, a loud thump, before he can hear curses and Wilson picking his phone back up. “Sorry, it just, it fell— are you- are you for real?”   
  
“Of- of course I’m for real,” he says shakily, more tears sliding down his cheeks.

He can hear the words. That doesn’t happen to men, stop playing the victim, stop being dramatic.

“I’m telling Cuddy,” he says instead. “I’m not letting you be around her.”   
  
“Wh-why? Because you think I’m lying? Because I’m pla-playing victim?”   
  
Wilson’s end goes silent and Wilson curses before putting his phone back against his ear. “House, I don’t think you’re lying. I didn’t know this was why you’re like this. I’m going to tell Cuddy tomorrow.”   
  
“She won’t believe you!”

“She’ll believe me. Go sleep.”   
  
“She’s not—”   
  
“House.” He draws in a breath, draws in lots of curses. “You lie a lot, but I know you aren’t lying about this. And she’ll know, too. Go sleep.”   


“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Go to bed. I can schedule you a therapy appointment later.”   
  
“I don’t need therapy—”   
  
“House. Vicodin, hard drugs and alcohol are  _ not  _ healthy coping mechanisms.”     

House grumbles and looks around for a blanket, covering himself with it. “In m-my book they are.”   


Wilson scoffs over the phone. “Sleep well, House.”   
  
“Doubt I will.”   
  
He doesn’t miss a beat before saying, “Don’t make me come over there and cuddle you to sleep.”   
  
“Be my gue—” he’s interrupted by a yawn. “Be my d-damn guest. Don’t touch my ass, though. You don’t wanna see how horny I am in my sl-sleep.”

He scoffs, and even though he can’t see him, he knows he’s rolling his eyes.  “Good night, House.”   
  
“Good night, Wilson.” The sickness remains there, but he manages. “Thank you.”   
  
“It’s no problem, House. You aren’t a problem.”   


Before House can insist he very much is, he’s learned so from multiple sources including Stacy, his father and pretty much everyone else, Wilson hangs up. 


End file.
